


Five Times Napoleon Solo Felt Like He Should Leave The Room (And One Time He Wasn’t There At All)

by redbrunja



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Sex, napoleon ships gallya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 14:56:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4791518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrunja/pseuds/redbrunja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Illya watched her approach through his eyelashes, gaze lingering on her legs. He shifted on the couch and Gaby settled herself beside him. She curled up, tucking her feet under his thigh and resting her head against the couch's back. She closed her eyes. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>Illya's gaze was fixed on the chess board in front of him but he reached down with one hand, wrapping his fingers around Gaby's ankle. Her lips curved in a small, private smile.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>Napoleon pointedly turned a page of his newspaper, mentally reviewing the best man’s speech he would be delivering at their wedding. </i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>If, that is, Illya ever moved past caressing his lady-love’s ankles. </i></p><p> </p><p>Exactly what it says on the tin. Five times Napoleon Solo felt like he should give Illya and Gaby some privacy, and one time he wasn't there at all. Including dangerous missions, sex, humor, and wedding metaphors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Napoleon Solo Felt Like He Should Leave The Room (And One Time He Wasn’t There At All)

**five. domestic bliss would be more blissful without the bruises**

 

It was a Tuesday night in Barcelona and they were coming off a rough mission. A successful mission, of course, but Napoleon was two days out from a nasty alley fight, and still pissing blood.

 

Gaby had a lovely black eye and bruised knuckles.

 

Illya was without a scratch. However, Napoleon suspected that the Russian had no sense of fun, so it wasn’t surprising that Illya was staying at the hotel instead of enjoying the charms of Barcelona alone.

 

Napoleon was alternating between sections of today’s local paper and yesterday’s New York Times, sprawled on one of the suite’s couches. Illya was on the other, playing a game of chess against himself.

 

Gaby wandered out of the bathroom, feet bare and hair wet from her bath. Her cheeks were a lovely pink but the short, white robe she wore showed off the scraps on her legs.

 

Illya watched her approach through his eyelashes, gaze lingering on her legs. . (They were legs worth watching, even with some wear and tear.) He shifted on the couch and Gaby settled herself beside him. She curled up, tucking her feet under his thigh and resting her head against the couch's back. She closed her eyes.

 

Illya's gaze was fixed on the chess board but he reached down with one hand, wrapping his fingers around Gaby's ankle. Her lips curved in a small, private smile.

Napoleon suddenly felt like he was intruding. He pointedly turned a page of his newspaper, mentally reviewing the best man’s speech he would be delivering at their wedding.

 

If, that is, Illya ever moved past caressing his lady-love’s ankles. Perhaps next time he and Illya were stuck surveilling some boring official, he would offer the man some romantic advice.

 

**four. what the lady wants**

 

Napoleon and Gaby had been at the soiree for more than two hours, and hadn’t been able to engineer a way to get Gaby from the mansion’s public rooms to the garages where she needed to bug and tamper with their target’s vehicles. Their target was clever enough to know that a party was a security risk, and as a result, had added additional well paid and suspicious guards to his usual compliment.

 

Illya was going to be insufferable. He was currently perched in a tree at the end of the property, providing support. He’d argued that Gaby should go in as one of the waitstaff, Napoleon had insisted she should play his wife. The argument about what she should wear lasted even longer (Gaby had left when that particular back and forth had started, retreating to fine-tune the clutch on the goodwood green Aston Martin she'd recently purchased).

 

Presently, Gaby was wearing a raspberry Chanel frock (point to Illya), pretending to be Napoleon’s wife (point to Napoleon), and hadn’t been able to get anywhere close to the garages (point to Illya).

 

Gaby drummed her fingers where they were nestled in the crook of his arm.

 

“We’re not getting anywhere,” she said, _sotto voce_. “I need a distraction.” Her eyes narrowed. “A big one.”

 

She guided him to the right, positioning him in front of the ballroom’s large windows. Right in Kuryakin’s sightlines.

 

“Put your hand on my ass,” she instructed, wrapping her fingers around his tie and pulling his head down, her mouth slanting firmly against his. He obeyed, his hand cupping the firm curve of Gaby’s rear, pulling her up on her toes, pressing her against his body.

 

Gaby kissed him for show but there was nothing faux about it. Her kisses were heady, skilled. Her clever tongue darted against his and then she was biting his bottom lip, a playful, wanton nip.

 

There was a bellow of outrage and Illya kicked the terrace doors open, glass shattering and wood twisting.  He stormed into the room, trailing guards like a bride’s veil.

 

The guests gasped, a few women shrieked, servers dropped trays and spilled drinks, someone shouted for more security, and Gaby slipped from Napoleon’s side, heading towards the garage.

 

Napoleon swiped his thumb across his bottom lip, wiping away Gaby’s lipstick, and then straightened his tie.

 

If a distraction was what Gaby wanted, that was what she was going to get.

 

**three: romantic entanglements**

 

It was the 1960’s, who was upset over a little infidelity in these modern times?

 

Still, Napoleon had decided that discretion was the better part of valor when tonight’s paramour had hissed, “that’s my husband!” at the sound of the door opening.

 

She'd shoved him towards the windows and Napoleon had gone. He was six stories up, but only two floors below Gaby's room. Climbing up thirty feet and strolling across four balconies to chat with Gaby while taking advantage of her room's wet bar sounded _much_ more appealing than descending and returning to his room via the lobby.

 

Gaby had left her balcony doors open (tsk, tsk, she should be more careful. One never knew what kind of dissolute characters could wander in eight stories up). Napoleon stepped silently from the balcony into the sitting room. He headed towards the bar, glancing into the open bedroom door to see–

 

Illya sprawled nude across Gaby’s bed, the woman in question riding his face.

 

She gripped the headboard, her knees bracketing Illya’s head. Gaby’s dark hair was falling out of a high bun, damp tendrils sticking to the back of her neck. Her skin glowed in the low lamp-light. The sinuous, supple line of her spine was art in its purest form.

 

Illya reached down, gave his dick two brusque pulls, the tip shiny with precome. Then both of his hands were back on her hips, his fingers broad and pale against her golden skin. He pulled her more firmly against his mouth and Gaby cried out, the unmistakable sound of a woman’s pleasure, her spine arching as she climaxed.

 

Napoleon hung the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door on his way out.

 

 **two:** **Солнышко моё**

 

If Napoleon were asked, he would say that he liked children. And of course, no man worthy of the name would ever harm one.

 

But when he’d heard that Gaby had been in an automobile accident- that a child had run into the middle of a rainy Parisian street and Gaby had decided she was hitting a lamppost instead of the child - well. He certainly wasn’t about to buy the brat a lolly.

 

Neither he nor Illya were smiling as they walked through the sterile hospital ward, heading to Gaby's room.

 

She brightened as they entered her room. She lifted her hand in a brief wave, before dropping it back down, apparently exhausted by that motion.

 

She had white bandages wrapped around her head and her left wrist was in a plaster cast. She looked wan, a worryingly sallow undertone to her skin.

 

"Have you seen my car?" she asked in German. "How bad is it?"

 

Yes, because he and Illya were deeply invested in the welfare of the vehicle she could have _died_ in. Women.  Such strange priorities.

 

Illya rudely co-opted her bedside. He bent over her, his hands very, very gentle as he touched the dark hair loose about her shoulders, the delicate curve of her face.

 

He whispered a long string of Russian.

 

“Mmm?” she asked, confused. She touched her head. Napoleon didn’t think it was the concussion or the painkillers that was responsible for her clear incomprehension. Illya had been teaching Gaby how to speak his mother tongue and his vocabulary lessons were very lopsided. He’d once spent forty minutes bent over an engine with Gaby, reciting the Russian words for each bit of machinery she pointed to. He'd spent two hours field stripping all the firearms available in their safehouse, giving the Russian word for the various parts and the correct terms for their maintenance. He’d completely skipped over informing Gaby of common Russian endearments, or the words a man would say when telling the woman he loved that she wasn’t allowed to be hurt, to die, to leave him.

 

Napolean might need to provide Gaby with some remedial vocabulary lessons.

 

**one: wanted, preferably dead**

 

Unsurprisingly, KGB agents were not popular West of the Berlin Wall. (When Napoleon pointed out that KGB agents were not popular _East_ of the Wall, either, Illya had glared at him with particular annoyance and Gaby had snorted, suppressing a laugh, so Napoleon knew he was right.)

 

Which meant that after a series of events that culminated in an exclusive soiree where the paths of the Algerian Prime Minister's mistress, a pair of brown and white goats, and the Russian ambassador crossed, the Russian ambassador had an ax to grind with Illya. Because apparently, in Russia, when someone saves your life, you throw him to a sadistic American expat who is looking to prove the inferiority of Russia and her children with a pair of pliers and a knife or two.

 

Patriotism was all well and good, in Napoleon's opinion, right up until one was torturing Napoleon's friends.

 

He and Gaby broke into the deserted warehouse without any problems. They took down the thugs guarding the door, and then crept through  rows of dusty crates, heading towards the middle of the warehouse, following the sounds of someone monologuing.

 

Blah, blah, something about freedom and democracy and Mother Russia's poisonous tendrils threatening every god-fearing country from one end of the globe to the other, et cetera, et cetera.

 

They peeked out from behind a stack of crates.

 

Illya's back was to them and under the bright warehouse lights, they could see whip marks across his back, blood dripping down, soaking the waistband of his trousers. He was chained upright and spread-eagled, wrists shackled to opposite struts, chains running from his ankles to loops of metal set deep into the concrete floor.

 

The thickness of the chains and padlocks would have been comedic if Napoleon hadn't been able to see the tension in the chains, the way the metal struts seemed to shudder almost imperceptibly.

 

Give the man a little more time, and this rescue would have been redundant.

  
"Are you listening, communist scum?" the American expat snarled. He struck Illya across the face. Illya's head didn't move and the American stepped back, shaking his hand.

 

Illya spat contemptuously on the floor.

 

With a growl, the American picked up a pair of pliers from a nearby table and Gaby rose to her feet, striding out from behind the crates. The heels of her boots rang against the cement floor like artillery fire.

 

The American jerked his head towards her, mouth opening. He was clearly about to question her presence.

 

Gaby shot the man twice in the head.

 

She didn't bother to watch the body fall, turning immediately to Illya, rushing to his side.

 

"You're not going to quip?" Napoleon asked. "Nothing about how 'he's _my_ communist scum' or ' _I'm_ the only one who gets to tie him up'?"

 

They both ignored him.

 

Gaby tucked her pistol into the back of her pants, reached up to Illya’s face. Her hands hovered for a moment, like she didn’t know where to touch him without causing him pain - or wanted to touch him everywhere and couldn’t decide.

 

Gaby rose up on her tip-toes, touched his bloody mouth oh-so-gently. His lips were swollen and split open, blood dripping down his chin.

 

Illya kissed her fingers.

 

“No tears, little chop shop girl,” he said softly. (Napoleon hadn’t realized she was crying.) Gaby made a little sob-laugh sound. They gazed at each other, a look more fitting for a wedding day than a filthy, abandoned warehouse.

 

Napoleon set to work on Illya’s chains, picking the locks (he didn’t even bother looking for a key).

 

Seconds later, Illya had one arm over each of their shoulders. He insisted he could walk without their help, but he lied.

 

**plus one: the cold war has never been hotter**

 

Illya suckled her clit, laved it with his tongue. Gaby bucked her hips up, twisting against the sheets, against the arm he held across her belly, holding her down. He had two fingers inside her, stroking. He listened carefully as her breathing speed up, catching in her throat as she came.

 

Gaby giggled afterwards, thighs twitching with aftershocks. She stretched, a pleased, satisfied movement. Illya's fingers slipped out of her as she propped herself up on her elbows, her dark eyes delighted. She was watching him, so he suppressed the urge to lick his lips, to suck her arousal off his fingers like a messy child with a candy. Instead, he bent his head, wiped his mouth clean on the rumpled sheet.

 

Her taste still coated his tongue. He closed his eyes, swallowed thickly.

 

"Come here," Gaby requested. The sheets rustled as she spread her legs wider.

 

Illya went. Slowly, though. He paused to kiss the inside of her knee, her taut belly, her right breast, his tongue circling her nipple.

 

lllya braced himself over her with one arm, careful to keep his weight off her slight form. Gaby didn't make it easy; she twined her legs around his waist, caressed his chest and shoulders, playfully dragged her short fingernails across his nipples. His hips jerked.

 

They kissed, and Gaby's clever mouth against his, her small hands touching him, made him feel dizzy and drunk, his blood heavy with lust.

 

She dug a knee into his side. He smiled, knowing what Gaby wanted.

 

He took himself in hand, teased her - teased them both- with the head of his cock, rubbing it against her slick, swollen folds. She was sensitive, after she'd come, and made the most delightful, needy sounds.

 

Finally she stretched her head up, nipped at his bottom lip, hard enough to sting.

 

"Now," she said, voice husky. "Don't ask me to wait any longer." There was nothing he wouldn't do for her, if she asked him in that tone of voice. (Although, truly, there was nothing he wouldn't do for her. He wondered if she'd realized that yet.)

 

Gaby held her breath when he pushed into her. He was slow, careful, even as sweat dampened the small of his back. She was so, so tight around him. Impossibly hot and gloriously slick and it look every scrap of his iron control not to thrust, to give her time to shift her hips, adjusting to him.

  
She wrapped her legs around his waist, lifted her chin at him imperiously. He moved then, first shallow, gentle strokes, and then deeper, harder, just like she asked for, pounding into her as she clawed at his arms and swore at him in German. She had a filthy mouth,  obscene, and no shame at all in telling him how he felt inside her, how much she liked his cock and his hands and the way he kissed her.

 

He was breathing hard and if he were a lesser man, he would have spilled inside her already. But no - he wasn't some callow boy, he would make love to her as she deserved. He let heat build along his spine, his prick so hard, the press of her body so tight, that the sensations resembled nothing so much as the first kiss of pain. Illya fucked her deep, fucked her until she was writhing under him, her control abandoned, her words senseless, her cunt spasming hard around him as she came again. Her climax drew his own pleasure from him, so intense that white sparks danced in his eyes as he gave her the final handful of thrusts.

 

"Hmm-hmmm," Gaby said, the sounds more felt than heard. Because he'd collapsed on top of her, like a graceless lummox.

 

He rolled onto his back, pulled Gaby onto his chest. The weight of her was negligible as she sprawled, warm and supple, across his body.

 

"Now _you_ won't be able to breathe," she protested and then yawned.

 

Illya laughed and stroked her hair.


End file.
